Mr. Jo Jo - May he rest in pieces
Mr. Jo Jo - May he rest in piecesMr. Jo Jo died tragically.
But I guess tragically is the only way to die if you're trapped in an empty peanut butter jar.
Such was how Mr. Jo Jo spent his last days.
I met Mr. Jo Jo by chance.
I had gotten off the couch in my apartment and walked into the bathroom when I felt something in my hair. I swept my hand across the back of my head and brushed a spider onto my shoulder.
"Funny," I remember thinking. "I don't remember putting that there."
The spider crawled part way down my arm before I brushed him onto the floor and threw a towel over him.
As a rule, creepy-crawly things don't bother me. As a child I used to pick those freaky used up cicada exoskeletons off the weeping willow tree in our front yard, stick them to my shirt and chase my sisters around the yard.
And I'm not afraid of spiders, although they tend to look more like things that originated on the planet Ickydon'ttouchit, than here on Earth.
I went into the kitchen, pulled a jar out of the cabinet and trapped the spider in this plastic, air-tight representation of blatant American consumerism.
And, although I'd washed the jar, I'm sure it had to stink in there.
I looked at the spider for a while. It was kind of flat when it lounged. It was yellowish brown, and I didn't see a hair on it.
Nope. I didn't know what kind it was. Not a clue.
Now, I can deal with the "I wonder what kind it is?" hairy and black variety of spiders. I can even deal with those furry wolf spiders that seem to grow big enough to leash and walk around the neighborhood.
"Hey, kid, I told you to stay away from the spinnerets. And stop whining or I'll just let you hang there."
But there was something oddly Freddy Kruegerish about this little fellow that I didn't quite trust.
So, I took him to work with me.
"What kind is it?" I asked.
"You see that black violin-looking mark on the cephalothorax? It's a brown recluse. No doubt about it."
I'd never had to deal with a brown recluse spider before. This was the bad kind of spider. The kind of spider that sold secrets to the Russians during the Cold War. The kind of spider whose poison eats away your flesh. The kind of ...
Wow. I guess that's enough.
So I set out to know my enemy.
The brown recluse spider is indigenous to this part of the country. They live in sheds, garages, closets and, apparently, my hair. Which made me wonder, just where in the hell did these little beggars live before humans came along?
The only known ways to kill brown recluse spiders include squishing them with the bottom of your shoe, spraying them in the face with poison, setting your house on fire,* and all-out nuclear war.**
Oh, yeah, and trapping them in a peanut butter jar.
Their bites cause severe pain, a nasty skin lesion, rash, fever, nausea, vomiting, renal failure, seizures, coma and sometimes death.
Mr. Jo Jo died in February after a brutal jar shaking. His broken body, now in 17 pieces at last count, still sits on my desk in the peanut butter jar - a tribute to this spider who taught me to be afraid to put my shoes on in the morning.
Oh, why did I name him Mr. Jo Jo?
Simple - because I don't have a monkey.
*Effective on roach infestations.
**Not effective on roach infestations.
